


these colors that i see; violet, red, and green

by mayaschuyler



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Angst, Because of course he does, F/M, Jefferson's a snob, M/M, but less angsty than i anticipated, mentions of Alexander/Eliza, might continue this but for now it's a oneshot, pianist!Alexander, violinist!Jefferson, who regularly gets manicures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 04:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5854693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayaschuyler/pseuds/mayaschuyler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander had always been proud of his hands. Calloused and bruised, they held the stories of his life. The ink marks that seemed permanently etched into his skin, the bumps from hours of scribbling on sheet music or furiously penning a stream of consciousness.</p>
<p>Alexander Hamilton had used his hands to create masterpieces and all the bumps and bruises were a canvas that he wore proudly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	these colors that i see; violet, red, and green

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea what this is really. 
> 
> note: i do not play in an orchestra. i have played violin and piano, but it's been years. so any inaccuracies are because i'm with stupid.
> 
> warning: some mild classism courtesy of tjeffs  
> 2nd warning: about the title i came up with it on a whim, so if i think of something better, i may change it. but lbr i probably won't.

Alexander Hamilton was never one to think lowly of himself, a fact well known by just about anyone who’d met or heard of him. This wasn’t to say he was arrogant, but he was well aware of his talents and strengths. He was a smooth talker, albeit long-winded at times. He’d always had a wondrous way with words, able to capture a vibrance and tone with nothing more than black ink. He was attractive. He had dark eyes, sometimes shining with a playful glint, or the fiery passion. Thick, dark hair that was almost always tied up at the back of his head. He was slightly below average height, but holding a charm and wit that almost no one was immune to; a smile so bright and full of enthusiasm it was contagious.

But perhaps his biggest strength was music. As a child, his mother would sit him down in front of the baby grand piano in their living room, begging the over energetic child to sit still for just a moment. He’d press the ivories and found a strong delight in the noise it produced. The notes could be soft, loud, sad, happy, mysterious. Much like writing, he could create bursts of color from the black ink on paper, could bring light and wonder from the black and white keys underneath his fingertips. It was the best feeling in the world.

Still. Alexander Hamilton, like anyone else, had his weaknesses.

There was always the twinge of discomfort when someone asked him about his family, his childhood, his home. Time and practice had granted him the ability to easily sidestep that obstacle, a simple shake of the head, a soft chuckle followed by a swift redirect or self deprecating quip. He was in no way ashamed of his ethnicity, but the occasional bone headed comments regarding the soft lilt in his tone and pronunciation always had him biting his tongue. As years went by, he told himself he wasn’t hiding his accent. He was simply masking it for communication purposes. (He refused to blame himself for having to adapt to a society so narrow minded. Assimilation was an unfortunate necessity and he would never blame someone else for doing their best to fit in for survival, so why should he reserve that judgment for himself?)

Alexander had always been proud of his hands. Calloused and bruised, they held the stories of his life. The ink marks that seemed permanently etched into his skin, the bumps from hours of scribbling on sheet music or furiously penning a stream of consciousness. His nails were almost always bitten down to nothing, a habit he’d never been able to break out of. Eliza would caress his hands, examining his blisters and callouses, gently kissing his fingertips. She’d prod at times, insisting he be more careful, but he relished in their character. 

Alexander Hamilton had used his hands to create masterpieces and all the bumps and bruises were a canvas that he wore proudly.

 

 

The first time Alexander meets Thomas Jefferson is on a hot summer day in July. The auditorium is nearly ice cold and Alexander continuously curses himself for not thinking to bring a sweater. Luckily, the energy that goes into playing keeps him from shivering, but when he’s sat still as the conductor working with individual sections of the musicians, he feels himself break into a terrible cold sweat. 

By 11 a.m, they’re four hours in and are sent off to lunch break. Alexander looks over the sheet music, quietly practicing to himself. The dull hum around him is like white noise; a French hornist working through chromatic scales, the tell tale signs of a cellist replacing a broken string, idle conversation between orchestra members. It’s the most calm he’s felt all day and he falls into an easy, peaceful trance, mindlessly running through the right hand part of the second half of the movement.

A sharp tap on his shoulder startles him, and he feels a large, warm hand clasp his shoulder apologetically. “Alexander,” the conductor, George Washington stands to his left, back ramrod straight. He knows George spent a large part of his life in the military and it shows in everything he does. The way he walks, the walk he talks. His aura of importance and status is so strong, Alexander resists the urge to stand and salute whenever the man acknowledges him. 

Washington smiles warmly at him, standing back to include another person into their conversation. The man is tall and lean, posture giving off a smooth and relaxed vibe. He’s dressed casually in dark jeans and a gray and white t-shirt. Alexander notices the black sweater tied around his waist and momentarily curses the man for being smart enough to bring something to keep him warm. The man’s big, curly hair added onto his height makes him quite the sight and Alexander can tell he’s used to getting second glances on the street, can probably get pull women or men by simply standing around and waiting. There’s a sense of invitation about him, but Alexander feels the hairs on the back of his neck and arms raise. The man wears an easy smile, but Alexander can see a hint of condescension. He body feels like a cat on alert, quickly trying to assess the unfamiliarity in front of him, but feeling a sense of danger. He wills himself not to break into another cold sweat.

“This is Thomas Jefferson, our concertmaster for the upcoming fall season. One of the best violinists in the world, fresh off a plane from Virginia, correct?” Even Washington’s introductions are grand, and Thomas seems to love the feeling of importance. 

“Yes, sir. I was home visiting family for a bit after formally leaving London. It was great to take a well deserved vacation, but I’m back and ready to work.” Alexander notes the use of “well deserved” and files it away in his steadily growing file of the man in front of him. He catches Thomas’ eye for a second and the condescension is clear, even in that small moment.

Washington, seemingly oblivious to what Alexander feels is obvious tension, smiles, clapping Thomas on the shoulder like he’s an old friend. Thomas doesn’t even flinch. “We’re happy to have you here and we look forward to having you here for an entire season. This is Alexander Hamilton, our pianist and assistant music director. An incredible talent and honorable man.”

Alexander straightens up at the praise and extends his hand confidently. “Thomas Jefferson. Alexander Hamilton.” He smiles politely and Thomas nods before grasping his hand.

The first thing Alexander notices is the softness of Thomas’ hand. There’s a strange juxtaposition of smooth soft skin and callouses from years of playing the violin. It takes him by surprise, but he hides it. They firmly shake and pull back. Thomas keeps his eyes on Alexander’s, and there’s a familiar, but unwelcome look in the man’s eyes.

For a quick moment, Alexander wonder if he’s overanalyzing. It’s been years since he’s encountered such disrespect, not since he was a young, Caribbean orphan being thrown from foster home to foster home, and especially not in the auditorium, a place where he’s almost always guaranteed respect and even idolization. 

He faintly hears George speaking about lunch in the conference room down the hall and with another smile and clasp on the shoulder, he’s gone and Alexander and this _person_ are left alone, their silent battle ongoing.

Thomas’ eyes flick up and down, barely noticeable. His violin case is still in his left hand and Alexander notes the muscles in his arm, bulging slightly but there’s no sign of fatigue in the man’s posture or facial expression. “Alexander Hamilton,” the southern drawl makes him flinch before he can stop himself and he sees the moment Thomas catches it. The smile on his face grows.

“Interesting grip you have. The hands of a pianist are to be treasured, especially for one as talented as you.” The tone on “talented” is not lost in translation. “I’d hope our company provides resources for proper care and maintenance of its members.” 

Alexander grits his teeth. He sees it much more clearly now, the classism, behind this encounter. He knows about Thomas Jefferson’s upbringing, coming from a long line of money, sent to the best schools in France and London. His privileged background was a popular point for discussion when he started becoming more well known. However, questions of whether his achievements were well deserved were quickly dissipated. Despite his connections and obvious preference for the finer things in life, his talent couldn’t be denied. 

Alexander had the opposite story. Poor, orphaned immigrant who went from being another brown kid in the system to one of the most recognized pianists and composers in the world. They were total opposites; prime examples of class division in society.

“Our company provides us with all the services necessary to maintain a tight and well run orchestra. I’m sure you’ll find whatever we have to offer suitable for your tastes.”

He keeps an innocent, but telling look on his face. There’s a brief moment of surprise before Thomas smiles bigger than he had before. He chuckles, shaking his head lightly and the way his curls bounce is a bit mesmerizing.

“Alexander Hamilton.” The drawl brings out less condescension this time. There’s a bit of amusement, maybe even respect. A feeling of familiarity rises deep in his stomach and he feels much of the tension in his body release. The feeling brings him back to college days, a young, Caribbean immigrant on scholarship biting back at the elitists and blue blood crowd he frequently had the displeasure of mingling with. The metaphorical pissing contest driven by typical male ego. 

He remembers that feeling. The feeling of _winning._

“I look forward to working with you for the next six months,” a large, brown hand is extended towards him for the second time today and Alexander grasps it, without any hesitation. Their handshake is even firmer this time, Alexander noticing softness of Thomas’ long, thin fingers again. It’s much more enticing the second time around.

“As do I,” he responds smoothly. They let go and Thomas steps backwards once, twice, keeping his eyes on the smaller man. With another light chuckle, he turns, headed towards his seat to set up his instrument before going off to meet other musicians. 

Alexander watches him briefly before turning back to the piano, eyes staring at the sheet music on the stand until the notes blur together. The competitive rush makes his heart rate increase. It’s been so long since he’s felt that he had an intellectual equal, someone just as willing to push buttons and toe the line. He can feel his brain lighting up, a spark igniting a passionate fire that had been laying low for so long. The treadmill of his mind speeds up and he can see flashes of color and music behind his eyes. An itch in his chest worsens and he finds himself scrambling through his bag for a pen, sitting on the stool and taking out a fresh piece of sheet music, a battle of sharp violin and brash piano playing in his head.

He writes furiously, hearing Eliza’s soft voice in the back of his head. _Why do you write like you’re running out of time?_ By the time the familiar burn and sting returns to his fingers, he couldn’t wipe the grin off his face if he tried.

**Author's Note:**

> i might continue this. not sure yet. i'm bad with finishing things -____-


End file.
